


the edge of nightmares

by kissmeinnewyork



Series: flickers of the vault era [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hugging, Just angst, Nightmares, Tears, but also kinda fluffy, pure angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:46:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: The first genuine tears Missy sheds in the Vault are ones of realisation. [there were no good days in the war. twelve/missy.]





	the edge of nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in my vault series, because why not, we all love some heavy twissy angst. Hope you enjoy and leave a review if you have a chance!

She dreams so loud it’s like he’s trapped in her head with her. It’s nothing complete, concrete; flickers of faces and smoke and blood, dripping through her fingers and onto polished stone. He recognises the burning orange sky of Gallifrey before the war and the sheer, black emptiness of it all in the years afterwards, the chasm that has sat between their hearts ever since. The electric rush of Dalek weaponry and the overwhelming desire to end everything because it all just _hurts—_

She shudders awake suddenly, blue eyes blinking back at him through the dark. Her hand clasps over her right heart, fingers flexing over the silk of her nightshirt. “What…”

“You were dreaming,” he says plainly, “Or having a nightmare. Not that we get a lot of choice in the matter.”

She snorts, pulling the duvet back and dropping her legs out the bed. “Aren’t you a smart one.”

“You asked.”

Missy leans over, her hair forming a thick, dark drape that hangs over her face, hiding it from his view. The Time War made it impossible for anyone who witnessed it to have _good dreams._ The concept is so dated it’s become abstract; he can’t remember the last time he closed his eyes and couldn’t hear screaming. He’s never watched someone else suffer through it, this post-traumatic stress, until now. He’s never had someone to hold his hand through it who actually _understands._ Rose tried, back in the early days, but her face was so young and her memories so new, the only blood on her hands from playground wounds.

Clara might have done too. He’s pretty sure she would have tried. Not that he remembers. He wishes he could remember, sometimes, when the loneliness hits and the stars glitter aimlessly outside his office window.

Missy combs her hair out her eyes and glances over at him, bemused smile on her face. “Are you watching me sleep?”

He’s about to bark _no, absolutely not,_ but—it’s exactly what he’s doing, more out of obligation than choice. He’s heaved his favourite armchair across the Vault floor and positioned it opposite the foot of her bed, a book of Milton’s sonnets hanging limply on the right arm and a cup of tepid tea at his feet. “I was going to read, but you’re constantly screaming inside your head. Made it difficult to get round the rhyme scheme.”

“So you thought you’d watch me writhe around in bed instead,” Missy hums, “Actually, yeah—I could see why you could get off on that.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. There’s no point in arguing. She’s always this crude, but perhaps being crude is her coping mechanism for everything. It’s easier to make jokes than actually reveal any emotional instability. “You should rest more.”

“I don’t want to rest more,” she says, lip drooping, like a petulant child on the verge of a temper tantrum. “Let’s play a game. Let’s play chess. I might even let you win, this time.”

“Missy, it’s three in the morning.”

He realises the stupidity of the statement in the look Missy gives him the moment the words fall out of his mouth, her eyes narrowed and forehead creased. He raises a hand, apologising. He’s not in the mood for an argument. He knows from experience that arguments with his oldest friend last _centuries._

“Yes, I know, but—this is the first time you’ve actually slept in days. I just think it would be better for you—“

Missy laughs bitterly, and it echoes round the room, cutting through him. “And you’d know what was best for me, would you?”

He clasps his fingers in his lap. The book of sonnets falls to the floor with a clatter. “I think I do, yeah.”

For a second, Missy looks like she might bite his head off, her eyes icing over and her fists clenching. But she breathes out slowly and the moment slips away, gradually, calming, the storm passing. She’s got better at that. Especially in the first few days, she’d lunge at him like a wild animal, teeth biting and fingernails scratching. She’s better at not letting her fury consume her.

“I don’t want to sleep more,” she says. Her fingers press at her temples, tracing tiny circles. “It—I never used to do that, before. I only used to dream about the good days of the war. You know. Standing in the ruins of Arcadia and laughing, because after everything I was… But there wasn’t, was there? Any good days in the war.”

He looks over at her. She’s stood at the foot of the bed, barefoot, hair messy and never-ending. She looks smaller than she ever has, more fragile. Her bones are made of glass. “No, there wasn’t.”

Silence reigns. He thinks there’s the outline of a tear rushing down her cheek, but it might just be a trick of the limited light. He stands, takes two strides, until he’s stood just a foot apart from her—her hands find his first and he brings it to her face, touches where the dampness should be and yes, yes, it’s a tear, the first not shed out of rage since the beginning. Missy’s eyes flicker shut, relaxing into the warmth of his skin.

“This is good,” he reassures her quietly, “It may not feel like it, but this is good.”

She whimpers and it’s a noise he’s never heard from her, lost and afraid and aching. She’s always been this hurricane of insanity to him; sometimes he’d wondered if there was even a heart under all those layers of chaos, the way she could murder so easily and walk away giggling. Perhaps the guilt and the pain was what was hidden under the chaos, not the heart, after all. He pulls her into him, let’s her burrow her face in his chest, feels the way she clings to his bones like the world is ending.

(It is ending for her, over and over and over again, thousands of years after it actually happened and it’s still ending, brutal and unforgiving.)

“I’ll run you a bath,” he murmurs softly into her neck, “I’ll run you a bath and I’ll wash your hair, and then we can go to bed together. Yeah?”

She leans back to face him, still gripping onto his forearms for support. It takes a few moments for her to nod, but it’s there, it’s definite. He half-smiles. It’s slow and it’s hard, but it’s working.

 


End file.
